


The Children of the Night, What Music They Make

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, Gen, Geralt just wants to retire in peace damn it, Geraskier Week, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Dandelion pushed his fork onto one of the slices of meat, forcing red liquid to leak out of it. “I’m not hungry for food,” he said softly. Then he drew back his lips, showing Geralt teeth that had an unusual shape to them.The Witcher’s mouth went dry. “Dandelion-”“I want blood Geralt. I- I think I’m turning into a vampire.”Suddenly it all made sense.The inn.The letter.The swords.Dandelion was trying to force a confrontation. He wanted to force the Witcher’s hand: take him to a place full of innocents, make sure he was armed with a silver blade, and then-He wanted Geralt to kill him.[Geraskier Week: Day Two Monster Hunt]
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Series: Geraskier Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959664
Comments: 32
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Dracula (according to google, because I’ve not actually read it).

He didn’t know what to make of the poet’s letter, which requested to meet at one of Toussant’s many inns. The Witcher was tempted to remind him - yet again - that he shouldn’t be in the Duchy, not if Anna Henrietta was around, because the two of them were nothing but trouble together, but as soon as he saw Dandelion the scolding words he’d planned died on his lips.

The bard was curled in the back of the tavern, an untouched plate of food in front of him, tapping his fingers slowly against his glass. He was paler than Geralt had ever seen him, and his hair was ruffled. But most alarmingly, was the fact that his shirt was rumpled and the lace on his sleeves was ripped.

When he saw the Witcher, he seemed to relax, his shoulders slumping hunching inwards over his untouched cup of wine.

“Did you bring it?” he asked as Geralt sat across from him, looking up with tired blue eyes. 

“I never go anywhere without my swords, Dandelion.” Oddly, the poet had only specified that he needed the silver one.

The poet swallowed and nodded. As Geralt sat down, the bartender placed food in front of them, which Dandelion must have already ordered. There were two plates, and he wasn’t certain what to make of Dandelion’s, which was a steak that was so undercooked it was nearly raw.

But the bard began cutting into it without a comment.

“What is it, Dandelion?” Geralt asked, ignoring his own food.

Dandelion put a piece of meat in his mouth, chewing with a wince. “You should ask them to finish cooking that,” Geralt told him softly.

“It tastes like ash,” Dandelion said softly.

Geralt stabbed a piece with his own fork and ate it. “It takes like raw meat,” he said with a shrug.

“Everything tastes like ash,” said the poet mournfully.

“You’re being ridiculous, Dandelion,” scolded Geralt. But there was a creeping sense of unease in his stomach. Dandelion would, as a general rule, eat anything you put in front of him. People always expected the poet to be a picky eater - and yes, he put on airs and whined when food wasn’t to his liking - but Geralt had never know him to push it around with plate with a wince.

Dandelion looked up at him with a hurt expression. “Geralt,” he whispered. “Geralt, I’ve been cursed.”

“With an inability to taste food?” Geralt snorted.

The poet looked away, giving a slight shake of his head. “Geralt I- I don’t know what caused it. It started one morning. I was with Annarietta - don’t give me that look - and suddenly I was so _hungry_.”

“Then eat,” he said, pushing the plate back toward the poet.

Dandelion pushed his fork onto one of the slices of meat, forcing red liquid to leak out of it. “I’m not hungry for food,” he said softly. Then he drew back his lips, showing Geralt teeth that had an unusual shape to them.

The Witcher’s mouth went dry. “Dandelion-”

“I want blood Geralt. I- I think I’m turning into a vampire.”

Suddenly it all made sense.

_The inn._

_The letter._

_The swords_.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. Dandelion was trying to force a confrontation. He wanted to force the Witcher’s hand: take him to a place full of innocents, make sure he was armed with a silver blade, and then-

He wanted Geralt to kill him.

Geralt leaned forward, grabbing Dandelion’s wrist across the table, dropping his voice so that he was certain no one else could hear him. “Here’s what you’re going to do, poet,” he growled through his teeth. “You’re going to get up and walk out of this godforsaken tavern, get on your horse, and go back to Corvo Bianco with me.”

“Geralt-”

“And if you even _think_ about causing a scene, I will hog tie you then whip you in front of this entire tavern.”

“Geralt, I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” he snarled, already pulling coins out of his pocket, dropping them on the table to pay for the food and ale he hadn’t even had time to touch. “Now start walking.”

But Dandelion didn’t, so Geralt stood and grabbed him, pulling him to his feet with a vise-like grip on his wrist. “Come on, you brat.”

Dandelion didn’t struggle as he was drug outside and practically thrown onto Pegasus, the gelding giving an irritated snort at the sudden weight. For good measure - and because the poet looked as though he still wanted to cause trouble - Geralt wrapped a rope around his wrists and tied it to the saddle horn. Then he swung onto Roach and grabbed Pegasus’ reins, leading the horse down the road.

Corvo Bianco wasn’t a long ride from the inn, but Dandelion seemed determined to make it as long as possible, refusing to speak at all, hanging his head and not saying a word when Geralt talked to him.

“I need to know what caused the curse, Dandelion,” he said. “I can’t break it if I don’t know a thing about it.” He’d never even heard of such a curse, after all, and no doubt Dandelion had very little idea what had caused it. The poet never seemed to understand why he got into as much trouble as he did.

“I don’t know what caused it,” mumbled the poet, speaking for the first time since he’d been drug out of the inn.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You just… woke up wanting blood?” he asked doubtfully.

“No! Zoltan punched a man and broke his nose,” Dandelion explained. “I- I could smell the blood on him, Geralt.”

Then he went quite again, refusing to say anything else. Geralt finally gave up on holding a conversation and they finished the ride in silence.

Once at Corvo Bianco, Geralt handed the reins off to a servant after unceremoniously untying Dandelion from the saddle and heaving him off the horse. It was a testament to how strange his employees found him that none of them questioned why Dandelion - who they had met and knew to be Geralt’s friend - had been tied to the saddle.

He pulled Dandelion into the wine cellar, and then off into the side chamber that he’d ordered be left empty in case he ever had need of it. He’d imagined needing it for a monster, but not for his best friend.

“Geralt-”

“Quiet Dandelion,” he said. “Stay here, and don’t you dare run off. I’m going to send for Regis, he’ll know what to do.”

“What does Regis know about curses?”

“He knows a hell of a lot about Vampires.” He’d know if it was possible Dandelion had turned into one, and - hopefully - what to do with him to prevent him from causing any trouble.

Dandelion dropped onto an empty barrel with a grunt. “Very well,” he said haughtily. “Although I doubt it will change anything.”

Geralt didn’t answer, turning and slipping back out the door, dragging a thick bolt across it to keep Dandelion from wandering off or trying to start another fight. Perhaps the poet had given up on himself, but Geralt hadn’t. Not yet.

Going back up to the main house he located Barnabas-Basil who was puttering about in the main room, doing… something. Geralt still wasn’t certain what a Major-Domo did, after all.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“But of course.”

“Go to Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery, there’s a man - Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy - in the crypts there. Stand in the cemetery and shout until he comes out. Tell me I need him as soon as possible.”

If Barnabas-Basil thought that was a strange request, he didn’t say. “Of course, sir. I shall return soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt walked up to the kitchens, a dead chicken swinging from one hand. “Here Marlene,” he said, holding it out. “For dinner.”

She seemed a bit surprised by the offering, but took it anyway, giving Geralt a smile. He nodded and turned on his heel, going back to the wine cellar. Just before entering, he stooped to pick up the bucket of chicken blood.

If there was even a chance that Dandelion might have turned into a vampire, he wanted to be certain. Yes, Regis was coming and yes, he would know more. But how long? Even if Barnabas-Basil went straight to the cemetery (and Geralt was certain that he would), Regis was, most likely, several hours away.

He could test him with silver, true, but the thought of harming Dandelion - even risking it - soured his stomach.

Instead, he had killed a chicken.

Dandelion was still curled in the cellar, mumbling to himself and looking rather despondent. As Geralt entered he looked up, and the change was immediate. His nostrils flared, his head snapped up, and Geralt only had a fraction of a second to realize how badly he’d miscalculated.

“Fuck.”

The poet - who was definitely not himself, Geralt no longer had any doubts about that - lunged for him, his once blue eyes almost seeming to turn red. Geralt threw the bucket as far from himself as he could, hoping it would be enough to get Dandelion to turn.

If the poet attacked - Geralt didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t want to hurt Dandelion, but if he didn’t defend himself- if Dandelion escaped- if he was truly a vampire-

Thankfully, Dandelion seemed to catch himself, stumbling back, his eyes returning to blue, his sides heaving. “Geralt,” he sobbed.

Geralt said nothing, watching Dandelion as he moved along the wall. “I’m not armed,” he lied, not mentioning the small knife in his boot. He wasn’t certain he could pull it out, even if Dandelion attacked again.

“You should be.”

“I trust you.”

“I don’t.”

Geralt knelt by the bucket. It had landed upright, and much of the contents remained. “This is chicken blood,” he said softly, ignoring how Dandelion drew back, shivering. “Are you thirsty?”

“Like a man in a desert.”

Geralt took a cup from his pocket and dipped it into the bucket, then held it out.

“No,” said Dandelion.

“Please,” said Geralt.

He could see how Dandelion held himself back, his shoulders shaking. His pupils were blown wide as he stared at the cup in Geralt’s outstretched hand. “Tie me to something first,” he pleaded.

There was rope hanging from the wall and Geralt grabbed it without thinking. If Dandelion needed something to reassure him that he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, then so be it.

“Where’s your silver chain?” asked Dandelion as he watched Geralt, his hands clawing at the dirt as though to hold himself in place.

“Lost it.” He’d never lied so much to Dandelion in one day, and couldn’t help the feeling of guilt in his stomach.

If Dandelion sensed the lie he didn’t say. “Put your back against that pole,” Geralt said, nodding to one of the cellar supports and hoping Dandelion hadn’t gotten any extra strength from his strange transformation. Once Dandelion was in position - with no whining, which he found more unnerving than anything else that had happened - he tied his wrists together behind the pole. The poet’s wrists were thinner than they should be and his bones almost seemed to knock together as Geralt patted the knot reassuringly. It couldn’t be a comfortable position, but Dandelion didn’t complain.

Geralt retrieved the cup and the bucket, then sat on the ground beside Dandelion, was once again staring at the blood as though it were the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

“Have you tried drinking blood?” Geralt asked.

“No,” said Dandelion, swallowing. “Geralt- Geralt give it to me. Geralt, I want it.”

He hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. He’d been convinced Dandelion wouldn’t want the blood, that he’d be disgusted by it and therefore prove he wasn’t turning into a vampire. Never in his wildest dreams would he have pictured the poet practically salivating for the liquid.

Wordlessly, Geralt held out the cup, pressing it to Dandelion’s lips. He couldn’t help but hope the poet would spit it out in disgust - holding onto a small chance that this was all wrong, that Dandelion was fine - but he moaned and gulped it down, devouring as he would a particularly fine wine.

When Geralt lowered the cup, he realized Dandelion was crying. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks, over the stubble that had grown on his face at some point since he’d stopped taking care of himself. Despite what many thought of him - and despite Geralt’s tendency to tease him about being emotional - Dandelion wasn’t someone who wept easily.

Geralt sat the cup aside and cupped his face, thumbing away his tears. “It’s only chicken blood,” he said. “It’s no different than eating roast chicken.” Except that it was, because humans - and even half-elves like Dandelion - weren’t meant to live off blood.

“But it’s blood Geralt,” the poet whispered. “What- what if-”

“Curses can be broken,” Geralt said firmly. Then, not knowing what else to say, he asked, “Do you want more?”

After a slight hesitation, Dandelion nodded. Geralt dipped the cup into the bucket again, then held it to Dandelion’s mouth as he drank. Already some of the color had begun to return to his face and he looked slightly less corpse-like (something Geralt never wanted to compare the poet to, ever again).

They sat in silence after that, Geralt letting Dandelion lean against him and close his eyes, what remained of the chicken blood coagulating in the bucket.

Then, a new voice cut through the cellar. “I would be surprised,” said Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. “But I’ve learned to expect strange things from you, my friends.” 

Dandelion screamed.

Geralt knocked over the bucket, spilling the blood across the floor. “Regis!” he scolded. The higher vampire had materialized beside them, his hands clasped behind his back, studying the two of them with a mixture of interest and concern.

“That’s rich coming from a man who came back from the dead,” retorted Geralt.

“Geralt?” Dandelion asked, his voice weak, but amused. “People in glass houses should not throw stones.” For the first time since they’d met at the inn, there was almost a smile on his face.

It took a moment for him to decipher the poet’s meaning, but once he did, he gave him a playful cuff upside the head.

It almost could have been a normal conversation, until Regis asked, “Who cursed you, Dandelion?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regis materializing in thin air is my aesthetic.
> 
> Also why do people always "disappear into thin air" why not thick air? What about humid air? Stuffy? This bothers me.


End file.
